A foul, overpowering stench of death surrounded the blasphemous attackers as they rushed toward the beleaguered pair. Jean-Paul drew his sword as he quietly urged Père Antoine, “Bon Père, sauvez-vous!” but the priest was seemingly rooted in place, praying. The nobleman wasn’t the swordsman he had been in his youth, but he would do what he could. Before they could move to flank him, he needed to take the fight to them!

As the strangers rushed forward, the aristocrat leapt to attack! With a shout, “Dieu avec nous!” he lunged forward to take the lead foe, his balestra followed by a beat-disengage-lunge, as he attempted to exploit his longer weapon’s reach. His foe clumsily twisted away from his thrust; with a flip of the wrist, Jean-Paul's blade whipped around his guard to skewer him! The villain desperately tried to grab at the flickering blade with his free hand, but wasn't fast enough; although his arm deflected Jean-Paul's frantic thrust at his abdomen, the sword's blade drew across his wrist, entirely severing the man's pale, waterlogged hand.

Leaping back from his foe, whose reckless strength was apparent, the frenzied aristocrat was confronted by another of his enemies, the stench of the grave striking him like a blow. The man's strange weapon slashed at the elderly nobleman, snarling with his heavy, waterlogged coat. Jean-Paul slammed his elbow into the disgusting thug's throat, where it struck with a strangely gelatinous sensation, sending the man reeling back from him.

Staggering back from the vicious attacks, Jean-Paul's blade swung back into en guarde as he gathered his strength for the foes' next assault. He could see the enemies' leader pressing toward him again, the man's bizarre weapon flashing in the dim light. He had his off-hand arm forward, prepared to ward off another of Jean-Paul's lunges... and the pallid stump wasn't bleeding, only oozing a blackish slimy discharge.

Phillipe staggered back as the... things burst in, tripping on a stool as he went. Mère d'un dieu! He had his musket with him, but loading it would take too long; it was no good for close combat anyway. And he'd long ago sold his saber. He cursed, scooping up the stool he'd tripped on. He'd have to make do; it was a heavy stool, it would suffice. He hoped. He lunged forward, swinging the stool. At least he was a veteran of bar fights, as well as battles.

The nine workmen, now spread out behind the assailants, whispered among themselves. Jean-Paul could hear little, but “hommes qui êtes mort par le rivière” he heard more than once. Nervously they moved forward; hammers, chisels and saws in hand.

Jean-Paul’s attention was taken by the priest hiding in his shadow.Pere Antoine continued to pray, but the words vexed the petit nobleman “Deus commodo servo vestri electus……illud cado ex venia……..tribuo lemma vires efficio vestri officina” his prayer was whispered and nearly drowned out by the sounds of clashing steel and screaming men. As he turned back to the fray, a sharp pain ran through Jean-Paul’s leg as the upper half of an assailant drove the side blade of his weapon into his leg.

Of the nine workmen only two now stood, one armed with a machete and the other a hatchet. Blood ran from them freely as they prepared for another attack.

(Seven workmen fell, quite quickly, and there are four assailants remaining. The leader and another are attacking Jean-Paul and the other two are trying to do away with the remaining workmen. Jean-Paul suffers 2 dmg from a sneak attack. Possible sanity check from the encounter.)

The House of the Rising Sun

Frederic dove forward with a speed betraying his large size.The wickedly hooked knife found it's mark and ripped across the creature's throat, though Frederic's weight and force threw him past the beast. Frederic rolled and landed somewhat shaken on the floor beside the door, thick red-brown ooze splashed across his face. His hand fell on a familiar wooden object...his axe!

With the thing off-balance by Frederic's attack, Phillipe's blow with the stool sent the beast reeling into the piano against the inner wall. Muffled screams could be heard for an instant and then were cut off as the two women hiding by the piano were crushed beneath the weight of it and the beast falling upon them.

Alexander snapped at Phillipe "Take this!". He slid Phillipe's bayonet across the floor to his feet. I must have dropped it...A shark-like smile crept upon the old soldier's face as he hefted the familiar steel into his hand.

The monster hissed as it regained it's feet. The bartender, trying to make an escape, was stopped short as the creature bit down on him as he crawled past. Blood showered the room and entrails slopped on the floor as the beast shook the limp body back and forth. He landed with a wet thud on the floor nearly torn in two, his spine the only thing holding both parts together.

(Two patrons crushed, a nasty slash across the neck and a few broken ribs for the "gator guy", one very deceased bartender, and both Frederic and Phillipe are now armed.)

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

“Gracia, Pater but, in Latin, doesn’t officina mean ‘workshop’? I think that you meant officium!” gasped Jean-Paul in French as he staggered away from the unholy monstrosity whose blade had torn into his leg. He remembered dueling as a young man, affaires d’honneur that spoke more of a young man’s bravado than of his honor. He’d been injured then, but had barely felt the wounds; he wished that he could say the same now! Évidemment, this was a sport for the young!

Passing his sword to his left hand, Jean-Paul yanked his pistol forth from its holster, hoping that his coat and the oiled cloth he had used to cover it had kept the primer dry. Dodging to one side as the vicious leader of the horrifying travesties slashed at him, he stepped between the pews, briefly leaving the thing blocking its ally’s path. Seeing his opportunity, Jean-Paul suddenly raised his pistol and fired! Foulness splattered the second revenant as the heavy ball tore through the leader’s neck and crashed into the other’s chest. The battered corpse behind the leader tottered briefly, then collapsed in a heap as the evil animus left its now lifeless shell, but the leader remained standing, a gaping wound torn in its neck.

“Matrice, créature de mal!” urged the frustrated aristocrat as his shot echoed through the church. He angrily heaved his pistol at the horror as it staggered back, retreating from the aristocrat’s wrath. Jean-Paul tried to press home his attack against the disgusting thing, but with his wounded leg, he couldn’t match its tireless speed. With reckless haste, the retreating thing clambered out the broken window and was gone.

Pere Antoine moaned loudly from behind Jean-Paul.As he turned he barely caught a glimpse of the upper protion of one of the assailants, the one who caught his leg, crawl under a row of pews. The remaining two workmen set upon him, making quick work of the beastly thing. But not before the damage was done...

The old priest was bleeding heavily from the mid-section, the dark blood giving a clue to the severity of the wound. "I am sorry, my son. One does get a bit confused when bleeding to death" Pere Antoine groaned.The sound of boots and the rattling of guns broke the silence as the guards tried to force the doors.

"Run, you fool! If the guard find you there will be questions to answer I'm sure you'd rather not."Pere Antoine pushed himself up on his elbow, grimacing. "Hide for a few days in the lower Quarter, then you'll be safe. Use the window, quickly!"The workmen had shoved a crate under the window to assist Jean-Paul's escape. "Bonne chance, Jean-Paul" one of the workmen said. He moved to the door before his face was clearly seen by the middle aged nobleman.

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Stunned at first by the thing that came up from the floor, more crocodile monster than man. Reaching into his cloak the Doctor went for his pistol, clumsy, common weapon though it was, and took aim at the vile thing. This d**nable thing had better work, he thought as he pulled the trigger back.

Logged

For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

The beast hissed, the foul stench of death emanating from his very being. Red-black ichor dripped from his muzzle and throat as he shifted his weight from side to side. He was staring at something...the man lying prone at the foot of the stairs, Papagayo. He faced the man now, clawed hands curled, grotesque talons clicking together.

Doctor Carneiro leveled his pistol at the thing. d**nable beast, could have picked a meal that wasn't sitting next to me...He squeezed the trigger tightly, doubting the result would be in his favor.

The shot lifted the muzzle of the gun nearly straight up, along with the good Doctor's arm. Over powdered, d**n!A roar, reminiscent of what one would expect a dinosaur to make, shook the entire room as the creature's side exploded in a shower of blood and flesh.Nearly collapsing, it tilted towards the hole in the floor. It fell half it's body hanging into the blackness of the hole it had created, it's legs and massive tail still thrashing about. The roaring continued, but began to grow quieter with each second that ticked by...

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"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Phillipe shifted the bayonet, then warily circled the alligator thing. If it looked like it was able to crawl out of the hole, he fully intended to dispatch it right then and there. If it was done for, he wanted to remove himself from this vicinity as soon as possible. The Spanish authorities didn't like Frenchmen, and the odds were good they'd make it his fault if they found him here.

Monsieur Maréchaux considered his inauspicious introduction to the City of New Orleans as he hauled his heavy valise through the alley’s shadows. What kind of place WAS this? An attack in the Cathedral? Barbariens! He could hear the sounds of soldiers rushing about, jabbering angrily in Spanish, but, thankfully, he wasn’t close enough to make out what they were saying.

Not far from the cathedral, some shelter presented itself. One of the buildings gutted in the great fire still stood, a waterlogged ruin of scorched timbers and tottering bricks. He appeared to be clear of the frantic soldiery, so he paused in its shadowed doorway, binding a clean handkerchief to the ugly tear in the flesh of his leg. The aching gash couldn’t wait much longer for treatment. Unhappily, he observed that his silk breeches and good coat were probably damaged beyond repair.

Reloading his pistol and carefully securing it against the damp, the injured aristocrat set out again, seeking someplace where he could find shelter; some hotel where he could find good brandy, clean sheets, and a doctor to tend to the knife wound in his leg.

Taking a moment to make sure the beast was dead, the doctor reloaded his pistol. Keeping it out and pointed at the thing he looked around at the freshly wounded and dead, trying to figure out which were what, and who would soon be dead.

Logged

For the love of meat, shut up! No one wants to hear your emo character background! My hands are literally melting away, and I'm complaining less than you!—K'seliss, Goblins

Axe in hand, Frederic decided to make sure the beast was dead. Taking careful aim at the beast's neck, he swung the axe down hard, hoping that it would take no more then once such swing to do the job...

With a swing reserved for the thickest of trunks Frederic swung down hard on what he assumed to be it's neck. Phillipe, just as quickly, thrust the long bayonet up into the beast's ribcage twisting and shifting the blade in search of it's heart.

(Critical blow with the axe nearly severing the head completely, and a final killing strike to the heart with the bayonet)

The great mass of muscle and scales slid easily into the hole. It was now as silent as an empty grave...

Triage...within me is the power to decide who lives and dies now the doctor though coldly. Looking around through the carnage he knew there was little he could do. Many were apparently dead, chair legs and splintered wood protruding unnaturally from their still bodies. A few still breathed, but it was to be their last very soon.The efficiency of destruction is beyond reason...Doctor Carneiro stood slowly. There was however something amiss.

(Successful Spot check for the Doctor)

The man who was lying so close to him, the negro Houdon, was gone. No sign that he was even there remained, except for a space on the floor clear of debris and blood. Wonder where he got off to...

Alexander pulled himself up onto a bar stool. His head was bleeding and his left arm was hanging at an odd angle along his side. The grimace on his face confirmed that he was indeed wounded badly. He gave a half-hearted kick to the table that had managed to fall on him just before the beast stepped on it."Well done, all of you. Now if you don't mind I could use a hand here..." he sputtered, trying to catch his breath."I can show you a safe place to hide" he coughed, a trickle of blood running from the side of his mouth "I assure you it will be a sight more pleasant than the cells at the Cabildo."He tried to stand, failed horribly, and sat on the stool.

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

"Any place the guardsmen are not likely to bother with is very appealing." Phillipe leaned against the bar, an eye on the door. "I don't suppose any of you know what that thing is?" Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head. "In any case, I don't want to be here when the Spanish authorities get here, they don't like me."

The musty smell of wet burnt wood nearly choked Jean-Paul. This hollowed shell of a building was vile to him, though he was not sure why.Having bandaged his leg as best he could and stowed his now loaded pistol, he slowed an took a deep breath. What had just happened was impossible. There was no way what he saw was real. He hoped Pere Antoine was alright.

A slight shiver wound down then back up his spine as a thin tendril of dust floated down lightly to the floor. A whisper of leather on wood sounded just above his head...someone or something was here with him.

How am I going to explain this one...Making a hasty exit from the scene of the murder Roselyn found her way into the burned husk of a building that had not been repaired since the "great fire". Knowing some local gang members, and a few of the local thieves in the guild, she was sure this was a good place to hide for a bit till she figured out her next move.

A few minutes later, Roselyn heard familiar sounds...someone entered the building. The slow grinding of steel on steel as a pistol was loaded. The tearing of cloth and the groan of pain...the smell of blood was in the air, but from the merchant's home she just left or the visitor who came to call on her hiding spot was uncertain...

The sounds from below stopped suddenly. A chill ran cold along her spine, the hair in her neck prickling.

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Her body still slightly damp from the rain drops pouring out of the sky. It was almost as if the angels them selves where crying out in vain. Even that did not stop the blood shed. Her finger tips had undertook the trouble to pull up her hair. Pulling it up and out of her face the jet black strands fell into a simple up due which she knew would hold. That is all that matted anyway.

The smell of blood was reeking, why she did not take note of it before she did not know. The chill that she had felt was something that she craved and longed for her own fear was something that she fed upon. “Alow l'obscurité po.” With a light smile, she opened the broken down door. Her snake like hips rolling as her foot steps where next to soundless on the burnt wooden floor. If it was a killer and they wanted to meet, how could she deny a fellow killer wants? If it was just a brawl then she had better go on and leave before more people came around. Then again why would more people come around this broken down place. By then she had reached the staircase which has long ago faded away. Her mind cleared of all thoughts. Leaping into the rafters that where still standing she hid in the shadows. The next move was up to who ever was after her. If they where in fact after her at all. Her hand drifted to her thigh as her finger tips found the head of one of her daggers. If needed she would be ready. Even if there was a chance that it might be unnecessary then at lest she was ready.

Jean-Paul’s hand jerked impulsively toward his sword before he recovered his composure. The events of the evening had obviously left him on edge. Given the downpour, no doubt some sort of beggar or vagabond had seized upon the place as a decent shelter from the storm, free of intrusion from the local gendarmes. For coin, such a person could help him find a skilled and discreet chirurgien to stitch up his leg.

Securing his valise beneath some debris, he called out softly to the unseen presence, “Bonjour! Est-ce que quelqu'un est là? Parlez-vous français?”

Jean-Paul walked cautiously toward the shell’s smoke-blackened stairwell. What stairs had been there were long gone, along with the roof, but he could make out where some sort of ladder had apparently been placed against the sagging remnant of the floor above. It was gone, presumably pulled up by the unseen vagabond above him, leaving nothing to be seen but heaps of waterlogged cinders and debris.

The continuing rain poured down on Jean-Paul, getting in his eyes as he stood peering above him.

From the darkness above, Jean-Paul heard a quiet whisper in lightly-accented French, "What do you want?" The question was short and to the point, as if the voice had somewhere to go and better things to do.

Attempting to mollify this stranger hidden among the scorched rafters, Jean-Paul replied, "I am injured and in need of a skilled doctor. If you could help me to one, I could pay you for your trouble. I have no wish to wander in this foul weather, seeking help at this late hour."

"Now, why should I help someone I don't know? That would indeed be something close to a fool," she stated simply. “If you blindfold yourself and do not look upon my face, I will take a look at your leg myself: If I am able to heal it, I shall do so. If not… then you’re on your own." It was the best she could offer him right then. There were too many people after her: Not only for her skill, but for other things as well.

The strange woman’s bizarre demands were really starting to irritate Jean-Paul. “Blindfold myself, indeed! The people in this town are all crazy!” he thought. “Why should I not see your face? I am newly come from France and know few people in this quagmire they call a city."

Suspicious thoughts ran through her mind. “Just what does he think I am? A fool? For all I know, he could be one of the many people after me. There’s no way I am going to let someone get to me that easily!”

Taking her fingers from the hilt of the dagger upon her leg, she called out to the waterlogged stranger below, “Then, I guess that you wish to have no help at all. This is all I will offer you: Take it, or I shall take my leave." She was not angry, but neither was there any kindness in her voice. Long ago, she had learned to conceal her feelings; it was one of the first things she’d learned when she took up her “trade”.

“What you do is no affair of mine! If you do not object too greatly, I shall wait below until this storm has abated slightly, then I shall seek a surgeon who lacks your idiosyncrasies!"

Just who was this man? And… who in the world would say “idiosyncrasies”? The clouds had parted; in the dim moonlight, she was able to make out some details of the battered old man before her. Despite his clumsy attempts to bandage it, the man’s leg was still bleeding: The blood that she had smelled was his. Leaping onto the ground, she landed with cat-like agility. Slowly she rose, as if she did not wish to frighten him. “Well, when you put it that way."

The woman that had appeared before him struck an almost piratical appearance to the baffled aristocrat. Clad in what appeared to be a coat and boots, she wore only her shift, corset and short petticoats. He could make out at least two knives and suspected that more were hidden among her outlandish attire.

As the woman approached, Jean-Paul was taken aback by her odd costume. Aghast, he blurted out, “YOU are a barber-surgeon?"

She smiled in a rather unnerving manner, as she enigmatically replied, "It is but one of many trades, of which I will not speak.”

The air seemed to go cold and stale in the room. Nothing but the smell of rotting wood and stagnant water remained. The shadows appeared to sway and dance slightly when Jean-Paul heard an all too familiar voice from the doorway."We know who you are, Jean-Paul. We'll not let the moon turn new before we feast on your flesh, the Master demands it..." A lanky figure was silently standing in the door. With a quick motion it brought up it's hand to point at the aged nobleman, but instead splattered black ichor up the front of the disheveled Frenchman. His hand was missing.

Small pieces of shadow broke away from the corners, taking shape as they moved closer to the two standing near the center of the room. Large rats, nutria of a decayed and rotting visage, scurried closer to the pair as larger chunks of shadows began to take other shapes, the shapes of men.

"Now let us see just how talented you are, old man!"

((that's four undead nutria and four more of your friendly neighborhood zombies. Your clothes are ruined btw. Good luck!))

« Last Edit: March 19, 2007, 11:46:40 PM by the Wanderer »

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

Alexander pulled himself up as best he could, leaning heavily on his walking stick."There is a safe place just a few streets from here, at the boarding house of Madame Revouel. We must hurry though...there may be no room there if we arrive too late."

He hobbled to the door, peering out a side window for guards. Satisfied none were in the vicinity, he motioned the rag-tag group out the door and down the street.

"Wait around the corner, I'll be there momentarily!" He moved back into the parlor, closing the door behind him.

Logged

"Every normal man must be tempted at times to spit upon his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats." ~Henry L Mencken

The icy fingers of the wind seamed to grip upon her moon light skin. With a light shiver, she almost did not dare to turn around to see the face that went with the voce that had just spoken. Looking upon the man in front of her she smiled softly “Pleasure to meet you Jean-Paul.” Taking a breath she glanced on down at the broken peaces of glass to see just who was behind her. Only her mind could not believe what her eyes where seeing. It was not human but in a way, it was. Her voce lost as all she could do now was look. It seamed she was stuck in a horror story that she loved to read late at night. What was behind her was textbook zombie. Either that or a man in a very life like costume, or would it be dead like costume? Glad she had already tied her jet-black hair away from her face she torn her eyes away from the broke glass on the floor and slowly stood up. Almost as if, she did not want to make any sudden movements. It was the fear that drove her to do what she did. She lived on it. The love of the feeling of being afraid. If you loved it then the fear would slowly become your friend instead of a fo.

Still not turning as she looked to the glass again to see all that was behind her. There seamed to be an old fire place and it was not to far away but that was not any help. The beams would hold her weight but she didn’t think it would hold Jean-Pail as well. Even so she could fight better up there from a distance with her daggers and gun. Fingertips still holding to the head of her whip as she lashed it out into the night. The sound almost seamed to be the only sound in the old burnt home. It latched upon the beam a she swung her form back upon it. As soon as she landed, she called out to them “What about how talented I am? I dare say did you mean to leave me out of this fight. That truly saddens me. I guess I will just have to spoil your party by joining in the fun. You don’t mind do you Jean-Paul? Besides you ruined my pretty cloths. You must pay for the damages.”

( I am sorry it took so long)

Logged

A step behind time. A step behind reason. Only in her mind. For she was before time and before reason. Counting a head. The only way she stays alive.